


partager c'est aimer

by hanktalkin



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Brainwashing, Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Multiple Personalities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 18:35:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15346035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanktalkin/pseuds/hanktalkin
Summary: Amélie and Widow clear the air. Poorly.





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Spring pushed between her toes, new grass sticky and wet from last night’s rain, her shoes left at the gate and the cemetery caressing her with its all-consuming dampness. Something about walking on graves felt better when it was dirt on skin.

 _I want to see him_ , Amélie murmured.

Widowmaker _tsked_ , and opened her palm toward the grave. “Well here he is. Take a good long look.”

 _I want to see him_ , Amélie repeated.

The hand dropped with a sigh. Widow should have known by now that trying to please the remains of Lacroix was a pointless endeavor, the half-formed personality too mad with grief to listen to any reason. The last time she’d come to the grave it’d been no better: Amélie had quieted down for a few days, only to pick up her never-ending manta within the week.

_I want to see him._

The thought snapped Widow out of her own, and she shook her head. “Could you not do us both a favor and give up? It has been years, Amélie.”

If ghosts were things that couldn’t move on while they still held earthly regrets, then Amélie was the most persistent ghost to ever dig in her six-inch heels. If she haunted a place, the children for miles around would whisper of her existence, daring each other to go and touch the door of the woman whose heartache kept her from the world beyond. But Amélie no location to mourn, no home to besiege. Instead, she haunted Widow.

“Come,” Widow said when it was clear this excursion was pointless. “We have friends waiting for us. 

_…Your friends. Not mine._

Widow stopped, her back to the headstone. Amélie never talked to her, never to do more than repeat her demand again and again. How…concerning.

 “They are your friends by association, my dear,” Widow told her. “And they are our ride out of here, so it is best not to make them wait.”

  _Let them wait. They don’t care._

“I assure you they do. We have places to be, after all.”

 Amélie expanded, the extent of her autonomy inside Widow’s head. _They don’t care about you._

Widow’s hands balled into fists at her sides, the common insult making her hackles rise now that it came from within. 

“Oh yes,” she hissed. “And _you_ were oh so loved and cherished when you were a little ballerina who sold yourself for the lights.”

 _I wanted to dance_ , Amélie mumbled. _I was alive._

“You were a toy.” The bow of an oak tree swung over Widow’s head, close enough to touch if she wanted to. Bent double with the weight it had chosen to bear. “A doll that danced to their tune without a thought in her pretty head.”

_If I was a doll, so are you. They’ve even dressed you up._

“Shut up.” Widow’s voice hissed low, the edges of danger upon it.

 _Why else would they make you wear that?_ Amélie went on. _You think you’re a weapon. A tool. You don’t know how right you are._

“I said shut up.” Widow’s nails sunk into the palm of her hand, her fist shaking.

_They made you. They own you. Every time they look at you all they think about is how they want to fuck-_

The wing of a stone angel shattered in a cloud of concrete, it’s body disintegrated under the power of Widowmaker’s swing. Shards of stone went flying, a fleck of slate slashing against Widow’s cheek as it spun out into the air.

“You think I do not know that??” she spat into the empty graveyard. “You think I want to be some pet!? All my kills are never my own, all my true targets holding the leash, so smug I dream of making them suffer. But I am alive, and you are dead and _nothing_ will change that.”

Widow heaved, clutching the broken headstone with one bleeding hand. She didn’t know how long it had been since she’d screamed, but in one breathless minute she’d shouted herself hoarse into the empty graveyard.

Amélie said nothing.

“Well go on,” Widow growled. “What do you have to say to that?”

 _…_  

Her knuckles dripped down and onto her wrist. It would be difficult to explain once she returned.

_…I…_

She held her breath…waiting…

_…I want to see him._

Widow exhaled, the air in her lungs stinging as much as the dust on her fist. She shook her head, pushing herself up to stand under her own power.

“I know Amélie. I know.” With that she walked again, out to see her friends.


End file.
